


I'm Yours Forever

by StarshipDancer



Series: Soulmates are Wonderful [1]
Category: A Very Potter Musical
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Lots of Cursing, M/M, Rated for cursing, Soulmate AU, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Voldemort loves to curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:40:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort never wanted to meet his soulmate. He thought the whole thing was ridiculous and a waste of time. Only his soulmate would be able to change his mind. Based on characters from Starkid's A Very Potter Musical (AVPM).  Quirrellmort AU based on the The Soulmate Counter floating around Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soulmate

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! It was about time I posted this on AO3 as well as FF.net. I also feel the need to mention that not only is this a Soulmate AU, this is also a Muggle AU. Just to avoid confusion. I do hope you enjoy!

One thing that Voldemort learned very young was that the counter on his wrist was a fucking waste of space, and if one was to ask him, he would inform them rather coldly that he did not care when the timer hit zero. He didn't care one bit whether he met his soulmate or not. The whole thing was stupid, ridiculous, and not for him.

Tom Riddle didn't give a shit about love or affection. He'd discovered early on that only the privileged got the big breaks and the attention, and an orphan like him was forgotten and lost in the system. His mom had died giving birth to him, and his father disowned him, so he had the misfortune of growing up in an orphanage. It wasn't so bad, really. The adults were nice to him, the kids were obnoxious little assholes who made fun of the way he looked, so he taught himself young to bully them right back. Soon, he was feared throughout the orphanage not only for his face, but for his disposition too. Tom Riddle was no more; he went by Voldemort, and God help anyone who called him otherwise.

That was another reason why he didn't give a shit about finding his soulmate. Who the fuck would want him? His face was gaunt and unattractive to look at, with his sunken eyes and snakelike nose. He kept his hair slicked back to give people the prime view, though. Then they didn't even think about approaching him.

He tried not to watch the timer on his wrist as it counted down from twenty years to fifteen years then to ten. He was a teenager by then and ran away from the orphanage he had been living at. Nobody noticed he was gone, and those who did were probably glad to be rid of him. He ignored the timer as he traveled the streets, and he soon gathered a gang of followers that he called Death Eaters. All of them either feared or respected him or both, and he hated every single one of them. The women threw themselves at him, eager to taste his power, and he fucked them well enough, losing himself momentarily in the meaningless sex. And every night, he tried not to look at that timer as it ticked closer and closer to the moment when he would meet the person that should be the most important in his life.

He didn't think about what his soulmate would be like. Whether they would be young or attractive, snobbish or boring. Male or female. It didn't matter to him. He refused to consider who or what they would be. After all, why should he when he didn't plan on having anything to do with them when he did find them? He was a self-proclaimed asshole, a real piece of work, and they'd undoubtedly be some wonderful humanitarian or something like that.

"Probably some flowery moron," Voldemort hissed to his reflection in the public restroom. He was twenty-three, and the timer on his wrist said one hour. One fucking hour until he would encounter his soulmate. He nervously slicked back his hair again with sweaty hands, and he growled in frustration at himself for being so unhinged. He stared at his reflection, startled to see his eyes widened in anxiety. That was an expression he never wore, an expression beneath him. That pathetic look is what his prey usually wore when he harassed them or his peons whenever he yelled at them. But he, Voldemort, the ruler of the streets, the commander of the Death Eaters, to be shaking like a wet mutt? It was pitiful!

"Snap out of it, Voldemort! You're going to ignore them anyways, no matter who they are!" He splashed a bit of cold water on his face and then dried it with a scratchy paper towel. Ugh, this place was filthy. He wrinkled his nose and used a paper towel to open the door, tossing it back in behind him as he exited.

"My lord, what are we doing here?" Bellatrix was one of Voldemort's most faithful followers and fuck-buddies. She had untamed black hair and rich, dark skin, and Voldemort always thought her eyes were as malicious and wild as he was. She made perfect evil plans with him, and he couldn't deny that she  _was_  pretty good in the bed or against the wall or wherever the fuck else he decided to have his way with her.

She also had a damn good point. The library was not one of their most frequented of haunts. Most of his Death Eaters liked to roam the streets and alleyways, tormenting unsuspecting fools who tried to take a shortcut through the dark streets. But this was all part of Voldemort's plan to avoid his soulmate. Whoever the fuck he or she was, they certainly wouldn't be in the bloody  _library_. Voldemort  _surely_  wouldn't have some ruddy  _nerd_  for a soulmate.

"I wanted a change of scenery," he insisted grumpily as he ducked down a deserted isle of books. Mythology. He sneered at a book of Poseidon and continued sulking. Trixie didn't know about Voldemort's determination to avoid his soul mate. In fact, as far as any of his Death Eaters knew, Voldemort's timer had long ago reached zero, and he just didn't give a fuck. Bellatrix still had a couple of years on her timer, and Malloy had married his soulmate a few months back. Sure, they were happy enough, but Lucius had actually  _wanted_  to find his soulmate so that they could conceive an heir to carry on his name. Voldemort didn't give a shit; he hated his filthy father's name and would rather die than let some poor kid inherit the title like he did.

"But the library? I don't understand," Bellatrix followed him, absently taking books out of place and sticking them far away from where they belonged. Some sap was going to have fun later. "This place is boring. Unless you have an idea to liven things up?" She dashed around him and bounced in place, her curls bobbing through the air. "Do you want to have sex in the library? Scare away the little bookworms as they study?"

"Is sex  _all_  you think about?" he grumbled and snaked around her again. He almost turned down another isle but changed his mind when he saw the Biology books. He risked a glance at his timer. Thirty minutes. That couldn't be right. It said an hour not even five minutes ago. He slicked back his hair again, the sweat from his palms only making it look worse. He swallowed and followed the path into the Biology section.

"My lord, are you feeling okay?" Bellatrix caught up to him, and she eyed him up and down curiously, lingering a little longer on his ass than she should. He wished there was a way to get rid of her, but she followed him fucking _everywhere_. "Perhaps raising some hell would improve your mood?"

"Go for it," he muttered with a roll of his eyes. He didn't want to draw attention to himself just now! He had to wait until the coast was clear. Until that timer said zero, he wasn't safe. His soulmate could be anywhere, just waiting to pounce on him.

Twenty minutes. Shit, was this how time always went? His fingers twitched, and he scratched a place on his arm that didn't itch. At the end of the isle, Trixie had taken a little girl's book and was now dangling it just out of her reach, and Voldemort cringed when the damn brat started crying. Huffing, Bellatrix dropped the book on the ground and trotted down the next isle, while Voldemort trailed behind her.

Fifteen minutes. Would they even notice him? Or would his soulmate take one glance at his face and cringe away like most people did? They might be so disgusted and appalled that they don't notice their timer has stopped. What if  _he_  doesn't notice his timer has stopped? He could walk right past his soulmate and not even realize it. No, that was what he wanted. Voldemort didn't even want to acknowledge their existence. They weren't important. Just because they were his soulmate didn't give them special significance or anything. He wasn't even remotely curious who they were.

Ten minutes. Bellatrix had dashed ahead and turned into the next isle, probably tormenting some poor idiot. Voldemort was glad she was out of sight; he didn't want her to see him losing his cool. He tried to swallow, but it felt like his throat had closed off. His lips were dry. His ears pounded, and he stopped to lean against the stack of books for a moment, appalled at himself. He was Voldemort, leader of the Death Eaters! Something as stupid as a soulmate shouldn't unnerve him so easily! He grabbed a random book off the shelf and opened it up, smiling at the pictures of the snakes. If there was one thing Voldemort loved, it was snakes. He often thought that he looked like a snake, and they had a pretty bad rep like him.

Yes, this was nice. He took a breath and flipped through the pages, surveying a nice picture of a basilisk. He almost forgot to look at the timer. Five minutes. He flipped the pages a few times, but by now he noticed his fingers shaking. Roughly, he shoved the book back into place, desperate for movement, and went in search of Bellatrix. Two minutes. If he provided a moving target, maybe his soulmate would be less likely to zero in on him?

He could hear her laughing in the next isle, so he quickly ducked down the Botany section, scanning around for anybody nearby. He only had a couple seconds to see her shaking the ladder before a thin body fell on top of him, and they toppled to the floor. The crash attracted a group of people, all trying to help the two of them up, but Bellatrix shoved her way to the front of them to yank the man off of Voldemort.

"How  _dare_  you!" she snarled at the unsuspecting man, grabbing him by his collar. "How dare you fall on Lord Voldemort, leader of the Death Eaters!"

"It-it's your fault!" he stammered in response. "You sh-shook my ladder!"

"Do not make excuses at me, you pathetic little—"

"Chill out, Bellatrix!" She was starting to cause a scene in the middle of the library, and Voldemort intervened before somebody called the cops. He grabbed her wrist and forced her to let go of the poor guy, and she followed him back a couple of steps. Some more people had gathered, and such a big crowd made his skin prickle. "Why don't you get out of here? You're embarrassing me!"

"I'm only trying to protect your honor!" she pleaded, her eyes wide in horror at knowing she had displeased him.

"Yeah, well, it's your fault he fell on me in the first place," he grumpily reminded, making sure to drip enough venom from his words for her to get the hint. "I want to be left alone. Your attempts at improving my mood have failed. Go meddle somewhere else."

Bellatrix floundered for something to say, anything to change his mind, but anyone who knew Voldemort knew that he  _didn't_  change his mind. Whatever he said was final, and she was better off listening if she didn't want to be in more trouble with him. She shot the stranger a nasty look before haughtily storming out of the isle. Voldemort could hear her yelling at people the whole way out, and he sullenly sighed and shook his head. That woman didn't know the meaning of the word discrete. Voldemort hastily glanced down at the timer, stunned to see the little zeros at last.

It had happened. He'd met his soulmate, and he hadn't even been paying attention. There had been so many people there, it could've been any of them! Not that it mattered to him. Sure, he'd been curious, but he'd never intended on actually  _meeting_  them. So why the fuck did pathetic disappointment sour his stomach?

"You didn't need to be so hard on her," said a calm voice from behind him. Voldemort turned to look at the man that Bellatrix had dumped on him, having nearly forgotten about him. He was dusting off his shirt, eying Voldemort warily as though he might give the guy more trouble.

"Yeah, I did." Now that the spectators were departing, Voldemort's nerves started to settle. He swallowed the bitterness and shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from staring at the timer on his wrist. After all, it wasn't like the clock would magically start up again. "If I'm not perfectly clear with her, she'll find some way to put words in my mouth and change what I'm saying for her benefit. Besides, she's been hovering and pissing me off all day. I'm glad to be rid of her."

"That's not a very nice way to talk about your girlfriend."

Voldemort shrugged. "She's not my girlfriend."

"So what is she, your follower?"

"You got it. My follower and my whore."

The man rolled his eyes, slightly disgusted, and for some reason, Voldemort didn't want the guy to look at him like that. For the first time, he got a really good look at the man. His brown eyes were guarded, but Voldemort could see the kindness behind them. Plus, he was pretty attractive for a guy, and Voldemort could tell he was genuinely a good guy. He glanced down, just noticing the books that were littered around them, and he bent to hastily pick them up.

"Sorry about her," he muttered in annoyance, wishing he hadn't made the whore comment. "She likes to cause trouble and gets overexcited all the time."

"It's, um… It's all right. I'm used to it." He graciously accepted the books from Voldemort, managing a tiny, shy smile, and Voldemort couldn't help but think he was adorable.

"Yeah, but she did all that because of me; I feel kinda responsible. And, uh, sorry. For the way I talked about her a minute ago. Stressful day."

"I can understand that." The man furrowed his brow a little, as though trying to figure him out, and Voldemort squirmed a little under the scrutiny. He must have reached a conclusion after a few seconds because he extended his hand and offered another timid smile. "I'm Quirrell."

"Voldemort." He shook Quirrell's hand, wondering at the unexpected relief he felt. Quirrell was just some random guy, why did his opinion of Voldemort even matter so damn much?

"Is that your real name?" Quirrell nearly laughed, and Voldemort couldn't help but grin. Damn, he really needed to stop being so infectiously cute.

"I don't like my real name, so I don't use it." He shrugged a little.

"Why don't you like your name?"

"Because my father disowned me when I was a baby, and I'm named after him. I don't want to be constantly reminded of an asshole who didn't want me." What? What the hell was this? Voldemort just didn't  _open up_ to anyone! Even Bellatrix didn't know why he refused his real name, but this guy he just met got it out of him when a single question? He had to be sick or something. Talking to Quirrell just felt so alarmingly  _natural_.

"Oh. I'm really sorry." And he could tell that Quirrell really  _was_  sorry. Nobody had ever felt bad for him before. He swallowed the agitation, every instinct in him screaming at him to stay guarded. Don't get attached to Quirrell. You'll just get hurt in the end. That's how it's always worked.

Voldemort realized he was still holding Quirrell's hand, and he hastily let go. Quirrell stared at him, puzzled, and he needed to change the subject. "So what kind of name is Quirrell?"

"My last name?" This time, Quirrell did chuckle, and Voldemort thought it was the best thing he'd ever heard. "My first name is Quirinus, but everyone used to tease me about it. So I just go by Quirrell. Besides, it sounds like _squirrel_ , and I do like those." Dear  _God_ , could he get any more precious? What the fuck was wrong with him?

"Makes sense," Voldemort muttered in agreement. He could already guess numerous ways to insult Quirrell with his name, but he kept those to himself. Anybody else, and he would've been all over the taunts and jeers. Why made this random guy so different?

Quirrell shifted a little, biting his lip, and Voldemort could tell that he was looking for an escape route. Might as well help him out. A clean break was a good idea, anyways. Voldemort would never see him again. It wasn't like Voldemort frequented the library, and he could already tell that he didn't fit in Quirrell's world. Quirrell was the kind of person who had a decent life and people who cared about him. Voldemort would just ruin that. For all he knew, Quirrell even had found his soulmate. Voldemort didn't fit at all. He shoved his hands back in his pockets, wishing he could ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I should, uh… probably get going. People are still staring, and I'm pretty sure the librarian wants me out of here." Voldemort grimaced a little and finally broke eye contact with Quirrell, eager to get away from him while he still had his wits about him. "Sorry again about the Bellatrix thing."

"Wait!" Quirrell's voice stopped him just as he was turning away. "Which way are you headed? W-we could walk together? If you want, that is."

What? Had Voldemort heard him right? He looked up at Quirrell, who averted his eyes to the floor, his ears pink. Yeah, he'd said what Voldemort thought he had. Fuck! Fuck it all. He'd almost gotten away from the guy without being too involved. He could easily say no, right? He could ignore that hopeful expression on Quirrell's face and just tell him no, he didn't want to walk with him. He didn't want anything to do with him.

"Well, I'm not really going anywhere in particular. Whichever way you're headed?" Voldemort smiled a little uneasily at Quirrell, who beamed in response.

"Wonderful! I just need to check out these books, then we can leave." He motioned for Voldemort to follow him up to the counter, and Voldy couldn't help but notice him glance at his wrist then survey the room quickly. Quirrell deflated a little and grimaced in regret.

"Something wrong?" Voldemort looked around as well, searching for someone staring at them. He didn't want to cause Quirrell any trouble.

"Oh! Oh, no. No, everything's fine." Quirrell checked out his books and said goodbye to the librarian at the counter, some young chick who smiled flirtatiously at him. Voldemort gave her a dirty glare before they left, and he was pleased to see that she immediately backed off. Mystified by her reaction, Quirrell followed Voldemort out of the library and pointed him in the right direction of his place.

They walked quietly for a bit, with Quirrell lovingly holding his books and Voldemort keeping his hands in his pockets. It was late afternoon by now, and the sidewalk was littered with people, so they had to walk close together. Pedestrians passing them cast Voldemort alarmed and disgruntled glances, and Quirrell either didn't notice or pretended not to.

Voldemort needed to get his mind off the people. "So…botany?"

"Oh, these?" Quirrell smiled down at the few books he had checked out of the library. "I like flowers. I can't really plant any right now, so reading about them is the closest I can get." He looked over at Voldemort, who had been trying not to grin, and he frowned slightly. "What?"

"Nothing! Why flowers?"

Quirrell pouted a little. "I think they're fascinating and beautiful, and they're quite like people, you know? They can be cruel and gentle, and they wither and die like we do. I've just always loved them. Lame, huh?"

"No, it's not lame," Voldemort said, and he meant it, too. "You should be allowed to love whatever you want without worrying about what people think. I chuckled because you, I dunno… You look like someone that would love flowers, so it didn't really surprise me."

"You think so?" Quirrell brightened, and Voldemort found his excitement infectious.

"Damn right I do!" Voldemort couldn't believe how easy it was to smile around Quirrell. He never smiled this much not even around Bellatrix or any of his other Death Eaters. They didn't make him happy the way Quirrell did, for whatever reason.

"So what is it that you like?" Quirrell nudged Voldemort back to earth, his head tilted curiously, and Voldemort chuckled a little.

"I don't really like anything. I don't do much for fun."

"Come on, there has to be something! Something you love that you're afraid to tell your club about."

Now Voldemort laughed. "They're a gang, not a club. And I don't tell them anything anyways. They just follow me around and cause trouble. I guess…" He paused, considering. "I guess if I had to choose something I like, it would be dancing."

"Dancing? What kind of dancing?"

"Every kind of dancing! Jazz, ballet, ballroom, tap, you name it! I don't know why I like it so much. I guess when I'm dancing, I don't worry about what people are thinking about me. Whether my face is bothering them or not."

Quirrell frowned at him disapprovingly. "Why should your face bother anybody?"

"Come on, Quirrell! I know you're not blind. I'm not exactly what you'd call attractive." Voldemort shrugged, having learned to deal with it when he was a kid. It didn't bug him as much anymore; it just made his life a little rough sometimes.

"Maybe you just haven't asked the right person." Quirrell looked bothered by that. Voldemort thought he was becoming more and more endearing the longer they talked.

They walked a little further, their conversation tapering off again into a comfortable silence. Voldemort liked being with him, whether they were chatting or just walking like that. Being around Quirrell was simple and easy, more so than any of his Death Eaters. Hell, he'd take Quirrell over Bellatrix any day. It wasn't until Quirrell stopped in front of a tiny apartment building that Voldemort realized how much he was going to miss the guy. Quirrell hugged his books tight against him.

"Well, this is it." He smiled timidly again, unsure what to do next. "Um, thank you. For walking with me this far. Sorry if it was out of your way."

"No, I enjoyed myself. It's been awhile since I just chatted with someone." Now how did he leave? Usually, people just pushed him away until he got the hint. Quirrell wasn't doing any of that. He actually looked a little disappointed that Voldemort would be going.

"You wouldn't like to come in for a drink or anything, would you? I have tea, coffee, something stronger. You could rest up before you go? I don't know how far you have to walk…" Quirrell fidgeted nervously.

"I don't wanna impose…" Voldemort's tone surprised him. He almost sounded  _hopeful_ , not gruff or rude or malevolent. He actually wanted to spend more time with this random guy, and he couldn't believe how happy Quirrell was as he beckoned him up to the door. He fumbled with the key, and Voldemort took the books from him to help him out. Even  _that_  was out of character! What was this guy doing to him?

"Come on it. Make yourself at home!" Quirrell flipped on a light as they entered, and Voldemort shook his head a little at the small, messy apartment. A jacket had been tossed unceremoniously over a chair, and books were piled anywhere that books would fit. Nothing had a place, and if it did, it was far out of it. Quirrell was a bit flighty from what Voldemort could tell, so the mess didn't really surprise him.

Ears red again, Quirrell tried to tidy things up a bit, but he almost made it worse. "Sorry it's such a disaster in here. I'm not really used to company." He managed to make a spot for Voldemort to sit on the sofa and placed the new library books on top of the coffee table. "So, what would you like to drink?"

"Tea's fine." Voldemort knew better than to drink around somebody as sweet and caring as Quirrell. He always ended up belligerent and nasty after a few drinks, and he didn't want to do that to Quirrell.

"Tea it is!" Quirrell busied himself in the kitchen, putting the water on for the tea and readying a couple cups, and Voldemort took to watching him again. He noticed Quirrell kept making furtive glances to his wrist, and each time he looked at it, he became more distressed. Voldemort risked a glimpse at his own timer, which still read zero, and he sighed quietly.

A thought occurred to him. But no. That couldn't be. That would be cruel and unusual, and Voldemort didn't like to be on the receiving end of either of those.

He might as well ask Quirrell what was up. It could be something simple depressing him, like a long time until he met his soulmate? Voldemort swallowed. Or maybe not much time at all. Voldemort refused to consider the other option.

"Man, what's up with you? You keep glancing at the counter on your wrist."

"Oh, do I? Sorry." Quirrell smiled warily as he sat down across from Voldemort in the chair with the jacket on the back of it. Voldemort tried not to think about how Quirrell was going to smell like dirty clothes.

"Talk to me," he urged gently, not wanting to push too much, but he had to know now. The suspense would kill him if he didn't find out what the timer on Quirrell's wrist said.

"It's just, I was supposed to find my soulmate today, and they didn't show up. Or they did, and I missed them." Quirrell stared at his lap, unquestioningly dismayed. The dryness returned to Voldemort's throat. "I know it's not unusual for something like this to happen. I'd just really been looking forward to meeting them. For a minute, I'd been terrified that my soulmate was your friend. Bellatrix?"

Voldemort nodded, chuckling humorlessly. "Can't blame you there." Then Quirrell's timer had nearly reached zero when Bellatrix started torturing him. When Voldemort's timer was almost at zero. So when Voldemort rounded the corner, and Quirrell fell from the ladder…

"I just can't help but think that maybe they were disappointed in me. I know I don't look like much. Maybe they didn't like me?" Voldemort had been so determined to avoid his soulmate that he didn't even consider how they would take it. Hearing Quirrell say those things about himself reminded Voldemort what a selfish bastard he was for not even considering how his apathy would affect his soulmate.

"Don't be ridiculous. Anyone would be lucky to be your soulmate. Maybe they… they don't think they're good enough for you." Voldemort's hands started shaking again, and he clasped them together tightly. Thoughtlessly, Quirrell reached out his hand and placed it on top of Voldemort's, but he refused to look into those brown eyes. He knew what he would find there, and he wouldn't be able to handle it.

"You don't really think that's true, do you?"

Voldemort stared at their hands, furious at how his own had stopped shaking the moment Quirrell's fingers clasped them. This had been exactly what Voldemort wanted to avoid. How many years had he spent preparing to elude his soulmate? The whole thing was a waste of time!

But this was Quirrell. Quirrell, who made him smile and laugh. Quirrell, who didn't care about the way he looked. Quirrell, who deserved far better than him.

"I have to go." Voldemort stood abruptly and made for the door. He needed to escape before he did something he would regret later. Like get fucking committed to his soulmate.

"Voldemort." Quirrell's voice stopped him in his tracks like he knew it would. Son of a bitch, he already couldn't deny Quirrell anything. He stared at the front door, focusing on a crack that weaved from the top of the wood all the way to the bottom.

"Listen, Voldemort… You don't have to tell me that you don't want a soulmate. I can tell. But I really like spending time with you, either way. Do you think we could, I don't know… hang out from time to time? Just be friends?" Well, that didn't sound so bad, but it had the potential to be catastrophic. Quirrell would worm his way under Voldemort's skin, he just knew it. Soon, he wouldn't be able to resist Quirrell at all. But he couldn't deny that he liked spending time with the little squirrel, too.

"Yeah, that sounds okay." He looked at Quirrell over his shoulder, a slight smile curling his lips, and Quirrell beamed in response.

"Wonderful! I'll see you around, then."

"See you around." Voldemort fled while he still had the chance, while he could still keep convincing himself that he really didn't want anything to do with his soulmate. One thought of how happy Quirrell had been demolished that idea before he could even finish it. He just wanted to hang out. See Voldemort from time to time. It didn't even have to be all the time. That was perfectly okay, right?

Voldemort let his feet carry him, not really concerned where they planned on taking him. His thoughts kept going back to Quirrell. Endearing, adorable Quirrell with his charming smile and ridiculous love for flowers.

Maybe this soulmate thing wasn't so bad after all.


	2. Different as Can Be

"My lord,  _what_  is going on with you?"

Voldemort stretched his legs out in the diner booth, sighing for what felt like the millionth time since he met Quirrell two days ago. He kept trying to tell himself that Quirrell didn't matter at all, and so far he'd failed miserably. He couldn't get the man out of his head! Voldemort kept thinking about his  _smile_  and his  _eyes_  and his fucking adorable  _laugh_ , and all that other disgusting, cliché romantic shit.

He just had to stay away from Quirrell. The more Voldemort was around him, the less he'd be able to resist Quirrell's charms, and he  _had_  to resist. Just because his soulmate was so fucking precious did not mean that everything he'd lived for since he was a kid could be pitched out the window. He  _didn't_  want his soulmate.

An annoying and illogical piece of his brain reminded him that Quirrell just wanted to be his  _friend_.

Yeah, maybe. In Voldemort's experience, everyone had an ulterior motive. Why would Quirrell be any different? Everyone was the same. The Death Eaters wanted power and money. Quirrell had to want something. Voldemort just hadn't figured it out yet.

"Lord Voldemort, have you been listening to a word I've said?"

Voldemort glanced across the table at Lucius Malloy and Bellatrix, who were both staring at him expectantly. Ugh. They'd been driving him insane lately. They must have realized something was wrong with him because the two morons hadn't left him alone. It was becoming bothersome.

"Sure, you and Malloy were making evil plans. Like always. Keep up the good work, guys." He shut his eyes and crossed his arms, fully prepared to take a nap right there in the diner. That was another thing making him increasingly more agitated. Since he met Quirrell, he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Every time he tried to close his eyes, an incredible and annoying loneliness grew in his chest, so he quit trying. Damn Quirrell.

No, it wasn't Quirrell's fault. He didn't ask for any of this. As much as Voldemort wished he could blame and hate Quirrell for the way this whole soulmate affair affected him, he couldn't. It just wasn't that bloody squirrel's fault.

Voldemort sighed. If Quirrell could've chosen his soulmate, Voldemort would be willing to bet anything that he wouldn't have chosen  _him_. Nobody as good-natured as Quirrell would choose him, an evil gang leader with a bad attitude who looked like a snake.

"You've been acting weird lately, my lord," Bellatrix haughtily pointed out, her arms crossed.

"Or I've been acting this way the whole time, and you just haven't been paying attention." He wasn't wrong. With everybody else, a single detail couldn't get past her, but Voldemort? No way. Bellatrix had a special way of overlooking anything that she didn't want to see when Voldemort was involved.

"I hate to agree, but Bellatrix is right," Lucius added with a flare of his wrist. "You have been rather odd these past couple days, ever since you insisted on going to the library."

Voldemort wished Malloy hadn't mentioned the library. He could almost  _see_  Bellatrix's ears perk up as she tried to put two and two together. Or, what she thought was two and two.

"It's all that man's fault, isn't it? He injured you when he carelessly fell off the ladder at the library! I should have maimed him when I had the chance!"

"It's not his fault!" Voldemort grumpily hissed before he could stop himself. Damn it  _all_ , he was already defending the guy! When Malloy raised an eyebrow, Voldemort hastily added, "I mean, you're the one who pushed him, Bellatrix. Technically, it's  _your_  fault."

"But  _he's_  the one who fell on you!"

"Tell me more about this guy," Malloy insisted calmly. "You say he fell on you? And you've been acting strange ever since? I know it may be none of my business, but are you sure he wasn't your soulmate? Do you even have a timer on your wrist?"

Bellatrix looked horrified. "I shoved my lord's soulmate at him? How could I? I'm so sorry, my lord! I never meant to trouble you with such an inconvenience!"

"He wasn't my soulmate!" Voldemort snarled, unhappy with the way this conversation was going. His fingers unintentionally curled into fists. "He was just some guy! Some guy one of my own Death Eaters dropped on me! And yes, Milfoy, you're right. Whether I have a soulmate timer or not  _isn't_  any of your fucking business."

"Forgive me, my lord, I was only asking because—"

"I'll think about letting you off the hook. Now, if you don't mind, I want to be alone." Voldemort stood up, already annoyed that half the diner was watching them. The owner glared mutinously at them from behind the counter, ready to throw them out, and Voldemort just didn't feel like dealing with the drama.

"I'll accompany you, my lord!" Trixie eagerly bounced to her feet.

"Do I need to define  _alone_?" He slammed his fist down on the table, and she immediately deflated. Hell, Voldemort would've sworn even her hair deflated. Hmph! Serves her right for hovering all the fucking time! She slowly sat down, lowering her head, and Voldemort tried to ignore the pitiful expression on her face.

The whole diner was staring at him by now. Damn Death Eaters, always bringing attention to him when he didn't want it. Eager to get away from the stares, he stalked quickly out of the diner, leaving the two of them sitting there. Grumpily, he shoved his hands into his pockets and began to sulk. He was not acting unusual! The two of them were just doing things on purpose to get on his nerves. He turned up a street and tried to blend in with the crowd, glaring mutinously at the stone pavement.

Meeting Quirrell had done absolutely  _nothing_  to change his life. He didn't care. Why would he care? Why should he give a shit whether some flowery nerd was his soulmate? Yeah, Quirrell was handsome and adorable and didn't care about the way he looked, but what did that have to do with anything? Sure, anyone would be lucky to have him as a soulmate, but…

Voldemort paused.  _He_  wasn't just  _anyone_. For all intents and purposes, he was the Dark Lord of the streets. Someone like him didn't  _deserve_  Quirrell. He started to pace, nodding sternly to himself. When he saw Quirrell again— _if_ he saw Quirrell again—he would just tell him that they probably shouldn't be friends. Voldemort was the wrong crowd, that one guy that Quirrell's parents probably warned him about when he was a kid. Bad news. Quirrell was a smart guy, certainly he would listen to reason.

That was it. Voldemort curled his fingers. He would tell Quirrell that he was just too dangerous, and that would be that. No more obligations (even though he didn't have any obligations anyways), no more soulmate, no more Quirrell.

He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. No more Quirrell. He'd only met the guy once so the idea of kicking him out of his life shouldn't depress him so much. Voldemort had never even guaranteed that he would ever  _see_ Quirrell again. It's not like he had his number or anything. Voldemort only knew where the guy lived.

Maybe, he thought hopefully. Maybe he wouldn't remember where the guy even lived! He hadn't really been paying attention (Quirrell was pretty distracting), so if he couldn't find his way back and avoided the library at all costs, he might never even see Quirrell again! Problem solved!

Shit, that just made him even more depressed…

"So how long are you going to stay out here before you decide to knock?"

Voldemort nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Quirrell's voice. He stared up at the apartments, at Quirrell standing in the doorway, smiling. Well, shit. Apparently, he  _did_  know his way back to Quirrell's.

He floundered for something to say. "Oh, uh… you see…"

Quirrell raised an eyebrow. "Unless you don't want to come in?"

Voldemort gaped, feeling like an idiot, but he just didn't know what to  _say_.

"You can go back to pacing, if you want. I'll leave the door open just in case. Feel free to let yourself in." Quirrell disappeared from the doorway. Voldemort imagined him sitting down on the sofa, reading a book or something. His palms started itching. This was it. His opportunity for a clean break from Quirrell. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the door and reached for the handle, fingers shaking.

_Damn it, Voldemort! Don't be such a pansy! Just get it over with!_

He walked in, not surprised to see the place in the same state it had been in two days ago. If possible, the living room was even messier. The books had been shoved aside to make room for stacks of paper that Quirrell was scratching his head over. Seeing Voldemort, he jumped to his feet and began to clear a spot for him to sit.

"Am I interrupting something?" Any excuse to put this off longer.

"Just grading papers," Quirrell answered with a sigh. "But I feel like I've been at it for hours. I could use a break. Please, make yourself at home!" Now that Voldemort had a better view of him, Quirrell didn't look so good. Of course, he was still fucking precious to behold, but he looked completely exhausted, like he hadn't been sleeping at all.

Shit. If he had any doubt before whether Quirrell was his soulmate, he didn't have it now. Neither one of them could sleep.

The annoying voice was back.  _Because you're supposed to sleep together_.

_Shut up!_

"Grading papers? What are you, some kind of teacher?"

"A substitute teacher, actually. I haven't found a teaching job of my own yet, so I just fill in whenever I'm needed. All these papers are wearing me out! I'm exhausted."

Voldemort sank into the sofa beside Quirrell, words bubbling to his lips before he could stop them. "You don't look it."

Quirrell chuckled, beaming. "Thanks, Voldemort." His smile had been worth the compliment, Voldemort decided. Better to smile now, since he wouldn't be after Voldemort told him what he had to say.

But he didn't want to drop the ball just yet. "So why haven't you been sleeping? Having nightmares about essays or something?"

"Something like that." Quirrell was smiling again, a secretive and endearing smile, and Voldemort wondered what it was he'd said. "After I shut my eyes, I just can't get comfortable, no matter which way I turn."

"That, uh… That sucks, man." Voldemort let his eyes trail to the clothes that were still sitting on that chair. Didn't Quirrell  _ever_  put anything in its place?

"So what's been keeping you up at night, Voldemort?" Quirrell asked innocently.

His gaze shot up again to see Quirrell smiling mysteriously again. Shit. He was much sharper than Voldemort had originally thought.

"I can tell you why, though I'm sure you already suspect it. That's just something we'll both have to get used to from now on." Voldemort felt a pain in his chest that he tried to ignore at the sight of the sadness in Quirrell's eyes, despite the smile he struggled to keep in place.

He had to do it now. "I'm not coming over here anymore."

Quirrell sighed. "To be entirely honest, I'm surprised you came over today. I was sure I'd never see you again."

"You were?" Voldemort frowned, eyes narrowed. Hadn't he agreed that they could try to be friends? Quirrell hadn't even  _believed_  him? So much for having trust in his soulmate.

"Don't take it so offensively." Quirrell shrugged a little, unmoved by Voldemort's grumpy expression. "You just really didn't look to me like you wanted a soulmate, so I just assumed you'd steer clear of me. Sorry," he hastily added. "Even if you did end up coming back at some point, I never imagined it would be so soon. I suppose I wasn't far from the truth." He fidgeted, apologetic.

"Quirrell." Voldemort shook his head, trying to find all the reasons he'd decided on earlier, but none of them wanted to leave his mouth.

"No, it's okay, Voldemort. I get it. I wish I could be the kind of person you could at least be friends with, but I understand that I'm not really your type."

"What?" Voldemort blinked. He hadn't been expecting that. "Quirrell, no. No, listen. I… I'm no good for you, man! I run a gang of criminals! I terrorize people. I'm bad news, dangerous! Trixie almost hunted you down because she thought you hurt me the other day! The two of us just don't fit in each other's lives." Now that it was out in the open, even Voldemort had to admit how lame all that sounded. He wouldn't buy it for a minute.

And neither was Quirrell, who raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching. "This is about your club?"

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Gang, Quirrell!  _Gang_!"

"I'm not afraid of your club, Voldemort." Quirrell went on as though he hadn't heard him at all. "I don't see why it's such a big deal to you."

"We're different, Quirrell!"

"So we are. Different as can be. So I like plotting a garden, and you like plotting to kill. Why is that such a bad thing?" Quirrell frowned at him wryly. "Unless there's something else?"

Voldemort glared down at his lap, frustrated at himself and at Quirrell, who had so easily excused his Death Eaters as a threat. Quirrell, a  _fucking teacher_ , didn't find a gang threatening at all.

"What about me, Quirrell? I'm not the kind of person you want to be around."

"You're my soulmate," said Quirrell quietly, suddenly serious. "How can you expect me not to want you in my life somehow?"

Well, shit. Voldemort was astounded that Quirrell just didn't give a fuck! He didn't care about Voldemort's past or the Death Eaters. He didn't even give a shit about the way Voldemort  _looked_.

He had the sudden urge to kiss him.  _Control yourself, would you?_  A kiss would ruin everything! Wouldn't it?

"In the end, it's your decision, Voldemort." Quirrell stood up and walked into the kitchen, probably to make a cup of tea. Voldemort's fingers clenched again in frustration at Quirrell giving up so easily. Sure, Voldemort  _wanted_ him to give up, but Quirrell was making this far too simple for him!

"You can't just give up like that!" he snapped, surprising himself.

"Oh?" Now Quirrell sounded amused. That little shit!

"Yeah. If you really want me to stick around—every now and then, you know, and completely platonically—then you can't just leave it all up to me! I've been trying to get away since I met you! You've gotta fight for what you want!" He tried ignored the counterproductive turn this conversation had taken.

"You bring up an interesting topic, though." Oh, shit. Perfect. This was going to go well. Quirrell returned with two cups of tea. He handed one to Voldemort before curling back up on the couch with his own. "What is it about having a soulmate that terrifies you so much?"

Voldemort sighed. If there was one way to scare Quirrell away, it might be the horror story of his past. "You don't understand what my life has been like. Everyone has always left me or got tired of me, unless they want something." The Death Eaters wanted power. Bellatrix wanted sex on any surface that didn't move (and ten more points if it did move).

"So why should your soulmate be any different?" Quirrell asked bitterly as he took a sip of his steaming tea.

"Don't drink that yet, it's too hot!"

"So, let me get this straight. You just really don't want your soulmate? You think they're an inconvenience who will either leave you or use you until they don't want you anymore? Is that what I'm understanding?" When Quirrell said it like that, it sounded really bad. Voldemort stared down at the tea in his hands, watching the steam rise from the cup. Quirrell sounded so  _pissed_. Voldemort didn't know he could even  _get_ angry.

"I'm sorry that's been your experience with people, but not everyone is out to use you." Quirrell's voice had gone up an octave, and he took a breath to restrain himself. "Do I want something from you? Yes. I want your  _company_. I just want to be around you now and then. I  _know_  I'm an inconvenience to you, and if I thought it would you happy at all, I would wish I wasn't your soulmate. But it wouldn't make you happy, Voldemort! Surely you know that somebody  _can_  care about you, don't you?"

"You don't know what you're talking about! You've been loved your whole life!"

"Except by the one that matters most," Quirrell muttered severely to his cup.

Voldemort couldn't deal with this anymore. He set his untouched cup down on the table and stood up. "I need to go. Sorry for bothering you." He shoved his hands in his pockets and quickly made for the door. This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to find his soulmate in the first place. Too many  _emotions_.

"Yeah…well, it was nice meeting you, Voldemort."

He stopped walking, his feet frozen by the door. Only a couple more steps, and he's be free. Quirrell was giving him  _exactly what he wanted_ : an out. He never had to return after this. Quirrell didn't expect him to ever come back. He could go on with his life, terrorize innocent people, and be alone until the day he died. That's what he  _wanted_.

He reached up to slick back his hair, cringing a little, and sighed. Deliberately, he turned around and walked back over to the couch, where Quirrell was watching him curiously. Grumpily, he sat back down and picked up his cup of tea to take a sip.

"How did you know I don't put anything in my tea?"

"Intuition." Quirrell smiled a little, confused. "I'm getting mixed signals here, Voldemort."

"Sorry. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, either." He shrugged and set the cup back down, clearing his throat a little. "Do you want to do something?"

Quirrell hesitated, and Voldemort could feel the silence thickening the air. "We could watch  _She's All That_? I've, um… I've never seen the end of it."

"I've never seen the beginning!" Voldemort's face split into a grin, and Quirrell chuckled in disbelief.

"You were ready to storm out of here a second ago, and now you want to watch a movie?"

"I guess you convinced me?"

"I'm not buying it, but…Okay. Let's order out and watch that movie!"

Voldemort tried not to think of how the whole evening sort of ended up being a date of sorts (if he thought too much about it, his eyes would start flickering to the door and an escape plan began to form in his mind). They ordered Chinese (Voldemort made Quirrell let him pay for his, too, since he'd been a bit of an ass all day) and stretched out on the couch, the papers Quirrell had been grading long forgotten. Voldemort had to agree that the movie was much better from beginning to end. When that one was over, Quirrell suggested  _Hairspray!_ , and Voldemort never was one to turn down a Zefron movie.

"If I ever say no to a movie with Zefron, it means I'm seriously ill," he explained, much to Quirrell's amusement.  _Damn_ , he could be cute sometimes.

About halfway through the movie, Quirrell nodded off, his head falling unceremoniously onto Voldemort's shoulder. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, surprised that the random weight wasn't unwelcome. He didn't have the heart to wake him yet. Just a little longer, he kept telling himself as the movie grew fuzzier. He yawned once, and before he knew it, it was morning, and he was still on the couch, only on his back and with Quirrell cozy and warm on top of him. That wasn't the alarming thing.

What scared the shit out of him was how he hadn't slept better in his entire life.


	3. Domestication

When Voldemort woke up, it wasn't from being uncomfortable. Quirrell's weight wasn't exactly what he would call unwelcome, if he was being perfectly honest with himself. No, the fucking sun woke him up, glaring through the window and straight into his eyes. Muttering, a curse, he tried to turn his head and get comfortable again, and his arms came up naturally to cradle Quirrell closer.

Wait, what? Cradle? Quirrell?  _Closer_?

He opened one eye and peered down at the sleeping form on top of him.  _He_ sure looked comfy! Snoring lightly, Quirrell had pressed his face into Voldemort's neck, and he thought he felt one of Quirrell's hands tightly gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Voldemort took a deep breath as anxiety began to course though his blood. This wasn't what they'd agreed on. They were trying to be friends, not…not  _this_ , whatever the fuck  _this_ even was. He didn't cuddle with anyone, not even Bellatrix (try as she might to demand it).

He tried to remain calm, but his arms and legs itched to move the longer he sat there with Quirrell on top of him. Why didn't he just wake the man up? Surely, the moment Quirrell realized how they were sleeping, he would freak out and apologize, when it wasn't entirely his fault. They  _were_  soulmates; maybe they just  _ended up_  sleeping like that? Instinct. Of course. What other explanation could there be?

Okay, think, Voldemort. He furrowed his brow, trying to remember what had happened the night before. He could recall Quirrell falling asleep on his shoulder during  _Hairspray!_ , and he hadn't exactly objected… What the  _hell_  was in that Chinese food?

He  _knew_  interacting with Quirrell had been a bad idea. The man was becoming harder and harder to resist. Soon, Quirrell would have him fucking  _domesticated_  and all that shit that he spent his whole life trying to avoid. He was the fucking  _Dark Lord_. He would not be  _domesticated_!

But the moment he glared down at Quirrell, fully prepared to make him get the hell off of him, his speech died in his throat. He just looked so  _peaceful_  and  _happy_. If he was being truthful, Voldemort really  _didn't_   _want_  to disturb him.

Then his voice floated up from the unmoving form. "I can nearly  _hear_  your internal struggle. If you want me to move, you only have to say so, Voldemort."

Shit. Busted. He shrugged a little as Quirrell opened his eyes to peer up at him, and he wished he could've ignored the sadness he saw in his face. "You haven't been sleeping. I didn't want to wake you up," he explained shortly, voice huskier than usual.

"How did we even get like this?" Quirrell carefully sat up, a light yawn on his lips, and Voldemort couldn't help but thinking that half-asleep and rumpled Quirrell was quite possibly his favorite Quirrell. His disheveled hair and the adorable way he stretched his arms out when he yawned only made him even more endearing.

"Thought maybe you might know," Voldemort muttered, sitting up. His back should have been stiff from the position, but he was pretty sure he'd never slept so well in his entire life.

"The last thing I can remember is John Travolta in drag," Quirrell admitted sheepishly. "Sorry for falling asleep on you. Um, pun not intended. It's probably my fault we ended up sleeping like that." He just sounded so fucking dejected that Voldemort couldn't bring himself to agree with him. Sure, it probably  _was_ Quirrell's fault, but Voldemort had to be at fault too. After all, Quirrell  _may_  have been the one sleeping on him, but he hadn't exactly objected when he decided to fucking  _cuddle him_.

"No, it's probably, you know…instinct."

Quirrell eagerly nodded. "Right. Soulmates. That would make sense."

"Yeah. No big deal. Not like it will happen again, so…"

"Of course." Quirrell looked down at his lap, shoulders slumped. Shit, he was making Voldemort fucking depressed. Did he actually  _want_  to sleep with Voldemort again?

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, each second frustrating Voldemort more and more. There had to be some way to cheer Quirrell up, get him acting like normal again. He could put his arm around him? But that might give him the wrong idea. Maybe something else. Something less like a relationship and more like a friendship.

"Uh, hey, Quirrell—"

"It's okay, I understand. You can go, if you'd like. I wouldn't blame you," Quirrell hastily interrupted, as thought he would have rather not said anything at all. Voldemort nearly chuckled. Could this man get any more precious?

"Actually, I was going to suggest we go out and do something today," Voldemort offered. He wished his voice didn't sound so fucking hopeful. Her  _wanted_  Quirrell to agree, but he didn't want Quirrell to know  _that_.

Quirrell immediately looked up at him, curious. "You want to hang out more?"

"Yeah, why not? I don't have anything better to do. You look like you use some time out of the house."

"I'm not the one who's as pale as a sheet," Quirrell teased, still a little cautious. It wasn't like Voldemort was just going to change his mind or something. "What about your club?"

" _Gang_ , Quirrell, they're a—oh, fuck it. They won't miss me." With a sigh of resignation, Voldemort merely shrugged, and Quirrell started to relax. "What about your papers?"

"I can finish grading them tomorrow." By now, Quirrell was smiling. Voldemort knew that he'd convinced him. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, we can go get something for breakfast, then I don't know… We could go rollerblading?" Voldemort shrugged, opting for the first thing that popped into his head. Normal people like to rollerblade, didn't they? He'd never been, but he figured Quirrell was the kind of guy who liked normal things like rollerblading. He couldn't exactly ask him to join him in causing mayhem in the city (evil didn't suit Quirrell anyways; he was far too nice).

"Rollerblading?" Quirrell's eyes widened for a moment before his lips curled secretively. "Voldemort,  _you_  like rollerblading?"

Voldemort furrowed his brow, trying not to get defensive. "I like it as much as anyone, and what's that look for?"

"I just never would have expected  _you_  to like rollerblading. But hey? What the hell. Let's do it. Just give me a minute to change clothes." Quirrell was halfway down the hallway when he backtracked, his ears a little red. "Um…do you need something to wear?"

"Do you even realize how scrawny you are? I doubt you have anything that would fit me."

Quirrell raised his chin, offended, and promptly left the room. Voldemort leaned back into the couch, confused. He hadn't insulted Quirrell, had he? Why would he be upset? He wasn't  _wrong_. Quirrell  _was_  much smaller than he was. Next thing he knew, a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt landed in his lap. Voldemort looked them over before he glanced up at Quirrell, who was smiling pleasantly.

"Those should fit you nicely."

Voldemort inspected them once over. "Yeah, looks like it. Where did you get these?"

"Is black okay?"

"Black's great. Are you avoiding my question?" For some reason, that irrationally pissed him off. Quirrell couldn't have anything to hide from him. There should be soulmate rules about secrets or  _something_.

Quirrell sighed. "Not that it's important, but they belonged to my ex. You can change in the bathroom if you'd like. This way." That said, he turned and started down the hallway again.

Voldemort was on his feet within seconds, his brow furrowed. Ex? Quirrell had an ex? He followed Quirrell to the doorway of the bathroom, his mind racing. It wasn't that surprising that Quirrell would have an ex. He was good-looking, nice, funny…

"Voldemort, are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" he growled a little angrier than he'd intended. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why the fuck was he so  _pissed_?

Quirrell blinked, stunned only for a moment before he smiled gently. "As long as you say so. I'll wait out for you in the living room whenever you're ready. Oh, and there's some hair gel in the cabinet, if you'd like to use it."

Voldemort watched him walk into what he guessed was his bedroom and shut the door. What the hell was he smiling about? Did Voldemort miss something? Grumbling, he walked into the bathroom, all but slamming the door behind him. He tossed the clothes onto the sink and glared at them.

An ex, huh? Who had he been? When did they break up? Why did he leave  _clothes_? Frustrated, he pulled out the hair gel. Had this been his hair gel, too?

More importantly, why the  _fuck_  did it matter? All of this was just pissing him off. It wasn't a big deal. Just some clothes, some hair gel. Some ex. Not a big deal. None of his business. He didn't  _want_  it to be his business. He screwed whoever the fuck he wanted; why should Quirrell not share the same opportunity?

Voldemort unhappily changed into the unknown ex's clothes and neatly folded his own. He didn't like these new clothes, didn't like the way they fit, even if they fit exactly like his normal clothes. They weren't  _his_. They belonged to some other guy that Quirrell had been dating. Which didn't matter one bit. It wasn't like  _he_  was dating Quirrell or anything.

His hand froze halfway through applying fresh hair gel. Shit.  _Shit_. He was fucking jealous.  _For no fucking reason_. Quirrell wasn't  _his_. Just because they were soulmates didn't mean he had a claim on him or anything. Sure, if he spotted someone flirting with Quirrell, he'd probably have them killed, but that was completely different, right?

He took a deep breath. He was the fucking  _Dark Lord_. He shouldn't just get jealous over—well, over  _Quirrell_. Not when they weren't involved or anything. Shit. That reminder really needed to quit depressing him, especially when it was  _his own fucking decision_  not to get involved.

A thought nagged at the back of his head.  _Then how does Quirrell feel_?

Voldemort shoved that thought away with the hair gel he pushed back into the cabinet. He had to get ahold of himself. Quirrell was probably wondering what the hell was taking him so damn long. With a glare at his reflection, he hastily left the bathroom and headed back out to the living room.

His feet froze the moment he saw Quirrell. The little squirrel had picked up a book in his absence and stretched out on the couch. He looked deep on concentration, eyes wide with excitement as they darted from word to word, and he was absently (endearingly) chewing on his bottom lip as he read. He was so immersed, he hadn't even noticed Voldemort when he entered the room. Voldemort felt his heart flutter in his chest.

What? Fluttering heart? Could he get any more cliché and romantic? Next would be the  _domestication_ …

"So should I just leave you and the book alone for a little bit or..?"

Quirrell started and blinked up at Voldemort as though he'd forgotten about him. Nice to know all it took was a good book to distract him. Off-handedly, he wondered if that was one of the ones he got the day they met. He liked the face of Startled Quirrell, too (but Half-asleep Quirrell was still his favorite).

"Oh! Oh, no, I can finish the book anytime! Let's go. You wanted to grab a bite to eat, right? Have any place in mind?"

"Not really. You pick, I'll pay." Voldemort shrugged and went over to open the door for Quirrell in a friendly gesture. Friendly. That was all. Not like this was a gentlemanly thing to do on a date or anything because this was _definitely_  not a date.

Quirrell's lips curled in a frown. "Voldemort, you don't have to pay for me."

"No, it's fine. I invited you, I can pay. Let it go and move your ass, will you?"

Still not entirely convinced, Quirrell let Voldemort usher him out, pausing only to lock the door behind them. "Follow me, I know a nice diner that's not too far from here. If we're lucky, they might still be serving breakfast! Then we'll go to the rollerblading rink…" Quirrell kept talking, but Voldemort's mind had started to wander.

Fucking Quirrell. Why did he have to insist on giving him a different pair of clothes to wear? Now Voldemort was  _curious_  about this ex of his, and no matter how much he tried to push them away, the thoughts came nagging back to him.

"Voldemort, are you listening to me?"

"Huh? Yeah. Plants. Couldn't agree more."

Quirrell hummed, amused. "Does anybody in your club actually buy it when you try to bullshit your way through a conversation like that?"

"My  _gang_  doesn't exactly question me, and I was paying attention!" If there was one thing he hated more than his curiosity about  _the ex_ , it was how Quirrell could read him so easily. Nobody else could! What made him so _special_?

"That must get boring, though. People following you around and listening to you all the time instead of challenging you. I make it my business to question everything."

Voldemort's lips quirked. "Yeah, I've noticed."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Quirrell feigned offense again.

"Just that you wouldn't fit in with my Death Eaters."

"I'm a  _school teacher_ , Voldemort. I'll take that as a compliment." He glanced over at Voldemort, biting into his lower lip again; Voldemort couldn't help but like that little habit of his. "Are you ever going to tell them about me? Not that I'm a big deal or anything. Just your soulmate." The longer he spent with Quirrell, the more important he started becoming. Voldemort couldn't help but feel this was getting risky.

"Bellatrix would flip out. She thinks I belong to her. If she found out you had a stronger claim, she might not take it very well."

Quirrell bristled. "I like her more and more every second," he muttered sarcastically and crossed his arms.

"Don't sound so jealous, Quirrell. I told you before, she's not my girlfriend."

"Just your whore, right?" He raised an eyebrow at Voldemort. "And why am I not allowed to get jealous, but you are?"

Shit. Busted again. He  _really_  didn't like how easily Quirrell could read him. "What do I even have to be jealous about, Quirrell? Don't be ridiculous."

Quirrell tried not to laugh. "You've been grumpier than usual since you found out I have an ex. If you aren't jealous, then I don't know what. It's a natural reaction."

"Natural. Right." Voldemort shoved his hands in the ex's pockets, refusing to acknowledge these fucking jeans as anything else.

"You can ask anything you want. I'll answer. I just don't think it's important at all. Oh, we're here!"

Voldemort internally cursed at seeing the diner that he and the Death Eaters had been arguing at yesterday. Fucking hell. Keeping his head down, he followed Quirrell in and hoped the owner didn't say anything about him being there. He had the distinct feeling he wasn't welcome anymore.

"Something the matter?" Quirrell asked as he led the way to a booth.

"Why are you always asking me that?"

"Because you're always acting like something is wrong," Quirrell laughed, and Voldemort couldn't stand how cute it was. What right did Quirrell have to even be that cute? Voldemort's heart felt tight whenever Quirrell was cute, and he didn't like it one fucking bit. He was trying to resist. Quirrell  _must_  be doing this to him on purpose.

"No, nothing's wrong, exactly…" He ducked his head again as the waitress, one of the girls that he recognized from last night, made her way over to their table. She set the menus on the table in front of each of them, taking extreme care not to meet Voldemort's gaze. It was more than a little annoying, but he  _had_  wanted a reputation that would strike fear into the hearts of civilians everywhere.

"Hey, Quirinus! I see you've brought a friend." She smiled nervously at Voldemort and fussed with her notepad as he glared at her.

"Hello, Amy. This is Voldemort." Quirrell beamed at her before his eyes started to skim the fine print on the laminated, folded paper in front of him. His brow furrowed for a moment before doe eyes flickered back up to her. "Can I still order breakfast?"

"For you? Of course! Um." She paused, glancing at Voldemort again before she continued, "The owner wanted me to pass along to, uh, Mister Voldemort that he and his friends are no longer welcome here, but he'll allow him in as long as he's with you."

Quirrell nodded thoughtfully, and Voldemort felt heat creeping along his neck. He'd been hoping to avoid something like this. He could only imagine what Quirrell might be thinking. Another reminder, he supposed bitterly, that he and his soulmate just did not fit together properly.

"Let him know that I said thank you and I appreciate it. Two coffees, please?"

"Sure thing!" The waitress walked away then, the sound over her shoes tapping against the tiled floor. Voldemort watched her leave; better to watch her than see Quirrell's expression. He'd have to look over eventually. Otherwise, Quirrell might draw attention to the how he refused to even glance at him, and that would only bring the topic into the conversation. Shit.

When he finally risked a gaze at his soulmate, all he saw was Quirrell intensely scrutinizing the menu. "Voldemort, what do you think? Eggs or French toast?"

"Is that all?" He almost couldn't believe his ears. No scolding? No questioning?

"Well, I suppose pancakes wouldn't be unwelcome, but I didn't want to leave myself with too many options. Then I'll never decide."

"No, forget breakfast! Is that all you have to say?"

Quirrell sighed and put down the menu. "What would you like me to say, Voldemort? Behave? Don't get thrown out of diners? I'm not your mother. I'm not even your partner. I don't really know what I am, truthfully. What trouble you get into when we aren't together is really none of my business. The thing that I  _really_  can't get over is Amy calling you  _Mister Voldemort_. It really doesn't suit you at all."

Voldemort stared, dumbfounded. "Uh…"

"You could always tell me your real name, but I don't think we're there yet." Smiling, Quirrell returned to the menu, lips curling under suddenly as he remembered his current impasse.

"Get the eggs. I'll get the French toast, and we'll share." Voldemort didn't even glance at the menu. All he wanted to do was make Quirrell happy. If he wanted eggs and French toast, Voldemort would make that happen. How else could he keep Quirrell smiling in front of him like that?

What the hell; he didn't even  _want_ this. He never wanted his soulmate. He'd planned, plotted, and assumed he was ready to ignore that special person on the day he was destined to meet them. Why had it never occurred to his him that his soulmate might change his mind? He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready to accept this, accept whatever was forming with Quirrell.

Quirrell, far too observant for his own damn good, must have realized this plight because he suddenly said, "His name was Tom."

"Huh?"

"My ex. I said, his name was Tom."  _Well of course he fucking was_.

"What happened to him?" Voldemort grumbled irritably, unreasonably pissed off about Quirrell's ex having the same name as him. Did God have something against him? Damn that two-faced prick…

Quirrell shrugged. "He found his soulmate. I wasn't terribly heartbroken, if I'm being honest. He would have done the same for me had I found my intended first. We both knew it wasn't a permanent relationship. I didn't love him. How could I? He wasn't my…well. I was glad for him."

Voldemort saw the change in Quirrell's expression, the sadness in his eyes, and Voldemort felt the sharp pang of it in his chest too. He'd had relationships before; none of them had been serious. Some of them had found their soulmates, and they stopped coming to Voldemort for sex then. He never really cared before, never really thought about it. He never saw those flings as  _relationships_  to begin with. This with Quirrell was foreign, new, and he didn't know how to react.

Voldemort stayed quiet throughout breakfast. If Quirrell noticed his sudden silence, he pretended not to. He chatted about anything and everything: about his job, about the book he was reading, about the food in front of them. Voldemort decided that he liked listening to Quirrell talk, no matter what the subject was. He liked hearing his voice, liked watching his lips curve and form the words and his tongue flicking across straight, white teeth. Every time Voldemort got too distracted with Quirrell's mouth, he took a swig of the strong coffee, as dark and black as his soul, and tried to remember that even if they were meant for each other, he and Quirrell just didn't (and never would)  _fit_.

Quirrell tried to pay for his plate, but Voldemort caught him in time and handed the waitress a few bills, more than enough for their meals and a sizeable tip. Quirrell eyed him, probably wondering where he got the money from, but never asked. Voldemort followed him out of the diner and back onto the sidewalk, which was far more crowded now that the afternoon had started. They had to press together to keep from getting jostled and separated.

"The rollerblading rink is this way," Quirrell nodded to their left and started to lead the way. Before he could press into the busy throng of people, Voldemort grabbed his hand. Quizzically, Quirrell glanced from their entwined hands up to Voldemort, waiting for something—an explanation, a declaration, a decision. Even Voldemort didn't really know what had made him do it, but he knew what he needed to say.

"Before, when you said you weren't sure what you are to me?" He waited for Quirrell's nod and took a deep breath. Damn, this  _emotions_  thing was harder than he thought it would be. "I have an answer for you. You're Quirrell. That's all you need to be."

Quirrell stared up at him wordlessly. Voldemort started to panic. Had he crossed some unspoken boundary? Had he said too much? Quirrell could just  _do_  something,  _say_  something, anything! He was taking too long. Voldemort _hated_  waiting, more than he hated not knowing.

But the wait was worth it. Because when Quirrell finally smiled, Voldemort thought his heart might explode and his brain might short out at the sight of those broadly curled lips. And a thought occurred to him, a thought that he would have considered dangerous and ridiculous not even a day ago.

He could get used to seeing that smile.


	4. The Pain of Success

Voldemort tried not to think about it. He focused on cars, pedestrians, birds, whatever the fuck he could concentrate his mind on instead of the hand that was still in his. He had grabbed Quirrell's hand when they exited the dinner and just hadn't let go once they started walking. Nobody noticed. Nobody said anything if they did notice.

Quirrell sure as hell hadn't brought it up at all. He just kept walking like hand-holding was no big deal, but Voldemort saw the little quirk in his lips and the spring in his step. He was enjoying this. Voldemort was having  _a complete meltdown_  and Quirrell was  _fucking enjoying it_. Who gave him the right to be so damn cute?

He thought about something else, not the hand in his. Not how the hand fit and felt so perfect right there, the fingers intertwined with his, the thumb absently rubbing the skin on his hand every now and then. Not about how happy Quirrell was just to be holding his hand or how happy it was making him, too. He should be happy. He should be shaking Quirrell off and reclaiming his limb.

"You  _can_  let go if you want, Voldemort." Quirrell glanced over at him with knowing eyes, and Voldemort wanted to kick himself for being so readable.

"No, no. This is fine. I'm cool with this." Lie. An obvious lie. Quirrell was going to see right through him.

Chuckling, Quirrell started to do it. He started to pull his hand away, and Voldemort  _held on for dear life_. Fuck it all, he just didn't want to let go yet. Quirrell shrugged a little, still beaming, and hummed to himself. Did Quirrell just fucking  _test him_? Wasn't that cheating? There had to be something in the soulmate rule book about that one. If not, Voldemort was going to fucking add it himself because Smug Quirrell was  _too fucking cute_ , and  _that_  was definitely against the rules. How was he supposed to resist with Quirrell being so cute all the time?

Maybe that was Quirrell's plan all along. Act cute until Voldemort couldn't resist him anymore. Or maybe Quirrell was just Quirrell and had no plan. The more time he spent with him, the harder it was becoming to imagine an ulterior motive.

"Here we are!" Quirrell tugged on Voldemort's hand, beaming at the building they approached. At this point, Voldemort tried to remove his hand from Quirrell's, but the squirrel was having none of that. Excited, he pulled Voldemort up and through the doors.

He'd never been inside a rollerblading rink before. He'd been expecting a dark atmosphere, like a club or something, but it was surprisingly light and reminded him of a bowling alley. Upbeat music played in the background, nearly drowned out by the laughter of the morons down on the oval-shaped rink. To their left, which Quirrell led him to, was the counter where they would pay and get their rollerblades. He turned, watching people spin and fall down on the floor, feeling incredibly sick and a little excited at the same time.

What had made him think that this was a good idea? He was going to fall on his ass and embarrass himself in front of Quirrell! Maybe Quirrell would fall on his ass, too. Then he wouldn't be alone. But Voldemort had the depressing notion that Quirrell was going to know what he was doing and wouldn't be doing any falling whatsoever.

"Here!" Quirrell dangled a pair of skates in his face. Hastily, Voldemort took them, looking them over.

"How did you know my shoe size?"

"Call it soulmate's intuition." Quirrell winked at him as he walked over to sit down and put on his skates. Voldemort stared after him, transfixed for a moment before he realized he even liked the way Quirrell  _walked_  (not a bad view, after all). With a quick shake of his head, he joined him.

These skates were going to be a problem. He could already tell. How did he get them on? How did he stand up once he had them on? He was going to fall before he even got to the fucking rink! He took off his regular shoes and tried not to think about how many other people wore these shoes. This couldn't be sanitary.

"You've never been roller-skating before, have you?"

He glanced over at Quirrell, who was smiling endearingly at him. He already had his skates on and had taken to watching Voldemort have his internal crisis. With a sheepish smiled, Voldemort crammed one of the skates on his foot.

"No, no, it's just been a while. I love rollerblading!"

Quirrell snickered. "Your club really does fall for your lies, don't they? Or do they just pretend you're telling the truth?"

"Probably the second one. I'm not sure about some of them, though. They  _are_  dense enough." Voldemort finished tying the shoes and paused, faced with the aforementioned problem of  _standing up and walking_. Chuckling, Quirrell held out his hands, and Voldemort didn't even think twice about taking them and letting Quirrell pull him up. Last night, he would have found a way to get up on his own. What had really changed in less than a day…?

He wasn't really starting to accept this whole  _soulmate thing_ , was he? He  _knew_  that little squirrel would get under his defenses!

"Take it easy at first," Quirrell had started explaining while Voldemort spaced out. "If you try to move too fast, then you'll end up falling. I'll take it slow with you."

"Are you kidding?" Voldemort waved his hand and scoffed. "I don't need to take it  _easy_ , Quirrell. I know what I'm doing."

Quirrell blinked at him momentarily before his shock turned into a kind of smugness. Voldemort had the odd urge to kiss that smirk off his face. "If you say so, Voldemort. Let's go!" He stepped down onto the skating rink and did a graceful spin as he waited for Voldemort to follow him.

Well, shit. Legs unsteadily shaking, Voldemort inched along the carpet until he reached the gleaming floor riddled with scuffs and scratches from wipeouts. He swallowed. Voldemort, the Dark Lord, leader of the Death Eaters, was _nervous_. Quirrell smiled expectantly, knowingly, and Voldemort narrowed his eyes.  _Fine_. Taking a deep breath, he stepped onto the skating floor.

And fell right on his ass.

"Fuck!" He hissed, pain shooting through his tailbone. He cringed and rubbed at his hip, waiting for Quirrell to start laughing. Hell, if Voldemort had been a bystander,  _he_  sure would have been laughing his ass off.

Instead, Quirrell extended a hand again, wearing that smile of his again. "I  _told_  you to take it easy. We aren't in any hurry, Voldemort."

"I know  _that_ …" Voldemort muttered, not taking Quirrell's hand.

Quirrell bent down to eye level, still managing to flawlessly stay on his skates. How the fuck was he even  _doing that_? "Then what is it? It's not something silly, is it? You have silly ideas all the time. I won't think lesser of you if you can't  _rollerblade_ , Voldemort. I just want to spend time with you. Didn't I make that clear enough before?"

Voldemort stared at him, wishing he didn't second guess everything Quirrell said. Was it really all right to trust him and believe him? Around the Death Eaters, he  _had_  to be the best at everything, otherwise they might try to challenge him. Quirrell really didn't give a shit.  _How had he gotten so lucky_?

Soulmates were a lottery. If the fates had been crueler, they might have paired him with Bellatrix. But, no. He'd gotten Quirrell. Kind, adorable,  _precious_  Quirrell who didn't want anything from him. Who didn't care if he could rollerblade or not. Who didn't even care if they had a relationship or not, as long as they could spend time together.

Voldemort didn't want a soulmate, though. He'd been fighting against it his whole life. So why was it that he needed to keep repeating that to himself? He wasn't  _good enough_  for Quirrell. In a fairytale, he was a bad guy. And Quirrell was the one he would get killed along the way.

But when Quirrell straightened again and held out his hand, Voldemort still took it and let himself be hoisted back to his feet. And when Quirrell didn't pull away, neither did Voldemort. They took it slow like Quirrell said they should, tiny baby steps that Voldemort couldn't believe he needed. He'd never needed led or showed before, but he was glad it was Quirrell. He loved that it was Quirrell.

Hell, he might even…

"Careful!" Quirrell laughed now whenever Voldemort fell, mostly because Voldemort made sure to shove Quirrell far enough away that he wouldn't drag him down too, nearly knocking him off his feet a few times as well.

"Yeah, you said that the last ten times," Voldemort grumbled, but he'd started laughing too. He didn't feel so bad now; even Quirrell had fallen a few times, but Voldemort had the sneaky suspicion those had been on purpose. His ass was killing him, and he didn't think he would ever recover from the torment he'd put his body through, but it had been worth it.

They spent most of the day there, watching the crowds shift around them. Voldemort had taken to pointing people out whenever they fell, and he even managed to get Quirrell to join a few times. He liked that; he liked hearing Quirrell laugh. Bellatrix and Lucius never laughed the way Quirrell did. They laughed like they had to laugh in his presence, not earnestly and with all of their being. Quirrell would never fit in with them.

As the day waned on, an announcement came over the speaker directed to all the skaters. "Couples only onto the floor!" Voldemort froze for a moment. He'd just started getting the hang of rollerblading, and he didn't really want to get off the floor yet. Quirrell had paused as well, looking worried and anxious.

"You r-ready for a break?" Stuttering.  _Fucking delightful stuttering_. Quirrell tried to turn towards the exit, and Voldemort's hand shot out to take Quirrell's without thinking. Quirrell stood still, rigid, as though waiting for Voldemort to make the first move.

"Not really. Let's keep going."

Quirrell's expression had been worth it. Voldemort was pretty sure he'd never seen him look so happy before, not even when he'd suggested this date. Not even when Voldemort had grabbed his hand. Happy Quirrell meant everything.

After a moment of skating, their hands still connected between them, Quirrell casually inquired, "So are you going to tell me your real name yet?"

"My name isn't a big deal," Voldemort replied just as casually.

"Then why won't you tell me?"

His lips quirked. "I like there being something about me you don't know yet."

"That's completely uncalled for!" Quirrell laughed, raising his free hand to cover his mouth. Wizard God, he was so polite,  _it was adorable_. "Now I see why they call you the Dark Lord!"

"Think so?" Voldemort narrowed his eyes, plotting. Quirrell bit his lip, shrinking back a bit, but he wasn't fast enough. Voldemort struck, aiming for the sides as he tried to tickle him to death. Other couples went around them as they squirmed around in the middle of the floor, Quirrell trying his best to evade him and Voldemort unrelenting.

Quirrell made a wrong move, or Voldemort did, and they both ended up in a heap on the floor. Voldemort landed on top of him, quickly checking to make sure Quirrell was okay. If he was hurt, he wasn't showing it. He relaxed, listening to his soulmate laugh hysterically.

"You okay?" He didn't need to ask.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm okay." Quirrell controlled his breathing and beamed up at him pricelessly, and Voldemort couldn't help but notice how the overhead lights made his eyes almost glow. Or was that from his smiling? "I'm wonderful."

His arm started to cramp, and he bent it a little, hovering closer to Quirrell. He could almost feel Quirrell's breath on his cheeks, and he loved how it smelled like cool mint. Quirrell's eyes flared a little in shock, noticing how close they were, and he tried to say something insignificant (probably to suggest that they get up or that people were watching). Voldemort didn't care. He didn't care if people were watching or if the voice over the intercom was addressing them.

He kissed Quirrell anyways.

It was nothing like the roguish kisses he'd shared with Bellatrix, or the few dramatic ones from Lucius before he met Narcissa. Those kisses had been meaningless, unimportant, mere milestones on his way to kissing Quirrell. They didn't feel nearly like  _this._  It was so  _right_ , it nearly  _hurt_ , and so  _addicting_ , he couldn't  _stop_. Just the barest pressure in response from Quirrell encouraged him to keep going, to pull him closer, to kiss him harder.

He didn't doubt it much before, but now he knew for certain. Quirrell was his soulmate. He was meant to be with him, meant to kiss him, meant to love him. No matter how hard he tried to resist the pull that kept leading him straight back to Quirrell, he couldn't change the fact that he would never belong anywhere as much as he did right then and there. That alone scared the fuck out of him.

_What the fuck was he doing_? He and Quirrell were trying to be  _friends_. Friends didn't snog like that! He would ruin whatever chance they had of going on the way they were, and he just couldn't do that. He hadn't  _wanted_  a soulmate; he had to come to his senses!

He rolled off of Quirrell quickly, ignoring the confused stare he received in return. "Sorry, man. I got caught up in… I don't know."

Quirrell's startled expression immediately closed off, and his eyes narrowed. His fists curled, and Voldemort wondered if he was going to hit him. He wished he would have. He deserved to be hit as many times as Quirrell could muster for all the pain he caused to him, and Quirrell was definitely  _in pain_.

"That's new," Quirrell muttered bitterly. "A soulmate actually  _apologizing_  for a kiss. I thought I'd heard it all." His voice broke near the end, and he turned his head away from Voldemort, refusing to meet his gaze anymore.

Voldemort had to fix this. If he let things go, he had the horrible feeling that this would be it between them. He reached out to touch Quirrell's arm, to calm him down, but the expression on his soulmate's face stopped his hand in midair.

" _Don't_  touch me, Voldemort. What the  _fuck_  was that even about? Why did you kiss me if you were going to apologize for it!?" He wiped his cheek, and Voldemort agonizingly realized that Quirrell was crying.  _He'd made Quirrell cry_.

He opened his mouth to explain, but no words came out. What could he even explain? That he loved kissing Quirrell? That he just wasn't good enough? That he honestly believed they didn't fit together?  _That he just wanted to kiss him again_?

Quirrell waited for him to say anything, watching him with tearful eyes that struck Voldemort deep in whatever soul he still possessed. When he didn't speak, Quirrell shook his head and looked down at his lap. "I can't do this, Voldemort. I thought maybe we could be friends. That I wouldn't want more. But tonight when you…I thought maybe you…" He shook his head again, more tears spilling over, and Voldemort knew what was coming next. How could he not know? He didn't think he could handle hearing it, not after how attached to Quirrell he'd grown. Not now.

"I don't want to see you anymore, Voldemort." A steel resolve hardened Quirrell's soft, broken voice. "I think it's better for the both of us. You don't want a soulmate, and a soulmate is all I want. I don't think I can handle getting hurt again."

"I didn't mean to hurt you." Voldemort could hardly breath, hardly speak, and it was a wonder Quirrell even heard him. But Quirrell's mouth quirked a little before he bit down hard on his lip again. He was waiting. He wanted Voldemort to stop him, to say something to convince him to stay, and Voldemort wanted nothing more than to pull him close to him and tell him what he really felt for his pure, little squirrel.

This was the opportunity he'd been looking for. He had to push it. For Quirrell's sake, he had to push just a little more.

"You're right, though. It's better for the both of us if we don't see each other. You should have realized, Quirrell. I told you from the beginning, that girl in the diner today even told you—I'm no good. I don't know why you didn't realize in the beginning that I would hurt you eventually." He measured Quirrell's reaction, waiting for more tears or more accusations. Quirrell only stared at him, brow knitted, and Voldemort should have realized what was coming next because he hadn't been convincing enough.

"I love you."

Voldemort didn't say anything. Over the years, he'd learned how to be heartless, how to control his emotions. Even at the sight of Quirrell's heart shattering right before his eyes,  _because of him_ , he didn't say what was on his mind. What he wanted to say. And he didn't stop Quirrell when he got to his feet, shaking enough to stumble on his skates. Voldemort only watched, waiting for him to turn and look back, but he didn't. He turned in his skates, put on his shoes, and left. The disappointed, brokenhearted expression was the last of Quirrell's he would ever see.

Voldemort wasn't sure how long he sat there on the floor, people passing him on their skates like undefined blurs skating and spiraling past him. The throbbing from falling so much had started to break through his stupor, reminding him that he wasn't dreaming.

Only one person in the world loved him, and he'd shoved him away. He really was the Dark Lord, cruel beyond measure. The pain in his heart heavier and greater than any bruise he might have received, he got to his feet and managed to steer himself over to the carpet.

If only he'd noticed the sets of eyes watching him menacingly from across the room, he might have been able to stop what happened next.


	5. Realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapter titles are horrible. I beg forgiveness. Also, I tried to be as authentic with certain things in this chapter. Hope I succeeded!

Voldemort wondered if Quirrell could tell that he was being watched and followed every morning and every afternoon. He wouldn't get too close, of course. Then he might risk getting spotted. No, he kept his distance, watching from across the street as Quirrell locked his door behind him, briefcase in his hand for work. Voldemort's feet would move with Quirrell's, not really caring where his soulmate led him, and he'd stop whenever they reached the school. Once school was over, he'd do it all over again.

Sometimes other people would walk with Quirrell a bit of the way. Fellow teachers, friends, students. Voldemort hated them. He despised how they could be with him so easily, make him smile and laugh. Voldemort sure as hell didn't feel like laughing.

In fact, he didn't feel much like anything. For a week, he followed Quirrell. A week where he barely slept or ate, hardly spoke to his Death Eaters as they attempted to make evil plans with him. He just, frankly, didn't give a fuck.

He tried to rationalize that  _this_  was why he hadn't wanted a soulmate in the first place. He was being weak, unreasonable, and ignoring everything he'd spent his whole life working on. He'd gotten hurt, just like he said he would—but that was his own damn fault, not Quirrell's. He'd hurt Quirrell, too. Even from across the road, he could see it on Quirrell's face: the pain, the fatigue, the exhaustion. Voldemort thought he might be getting thinner, too. And all of it was his fault.

That Saturday, exactly a week since they'd went rollerblading, he followed Quirrell to the library. He wondered how long it would be before he could go a day without stalking his soulmate.  _Did_  Quirrell even notice? Could he tell? If he did, he never showed it. He never looked across the road at Voldemort, just kept his face forward indifferently. That must have been it; Quirrell knew he was there, obviously (after all, what the fuck didn't Quirrell know?). He just chose to ignore Voldemort's existence, and he couldn't blame him one bit.

He slowed when Quirrell walked into the small building, fighting against the part of him that wanted to follow his soulmate into the library. If he did that, he'd be too close. He wouldn't be able to stand it anymore. He'd probably shove Quirrell up against a stack of books and…

Voldemort stuffed his hands into his pockets, trying to ignore the pang in his chest as he watched the door close behind Quirrell. Well. Quirrell would be there for a few hours, as per usual. Might as well go see what the Death Eaters were up to. They'd probably be over at the Malfoy's, acting like lost puppies without him…

He took his time getting there. He wanted to time it just right so he would get there, have to listen to Trixie tell him about some horrible plan she wanted to put into action, strike her plan down immediately, and need to leave again to walk Quirrell home. He should turn back. Go back to the library, find Quirrell, and forget about all this shit about the gang and ruling the world. None of it really even mattered anymore. He wasn't really sure if it had ever mattered in the first place.

Malfoy Manor was a little too quiet when he approached. Voldemort tensed up, eyes narrowing. No amount of exhaustion could tamper with his instincts that screamed something was wrong about this. There should at least be _some noise_. Bellatrix shrieking at idiots. Lucius yelling that their choreography was off.  _Something_.

He walked in cautiously, prepared for a fight. The entrance was empty, but he saw the flicker of fire dancing across the marble floor from the doorway into the living room. It was in the middle of the day; who would have the fire lit? These fucking Death Eaters were shirking their duties again. What was even the point of them anymore? Irritably, he walked into the room, in the mood to put the fear of the Dark Lord into all of their hearts.

"Hello, my liege." Bellatrix wildly smiled from her place on the leather couch when he entered. She was the only one there for some reason. It wasn't even her fucking house! What the hell was she doing here when the others were out?

"Trixie!" Voldemort tried to be happy to see her, or at least pretend to be. The last thing he wanted was to hear her bitch and moan. "Where is everyone?"

"Don't worry about them right now. We're alone." She spread out on the couch, her eyes trailing him up and down. Voldemort distinctly felt like vomiting. Something about her expression was weirding him out, too. She kept smiling the way she did when everything was going according to her plan, and he didn't  _want_  to know what was going on in her head. "My lord, why don't you join me? We could make love like we used to."

Voldemort scoffed before he could stop himself. Even the idea of  _touching_  someone who wasn't Quirrell felt wrong on a moral level. He couldn't just cheat on his soulmate like that. "We never  _made love_ , Bellatrix. We had sex. Casual, meaningless sex." Why not hurt her too? Since he was being an ass to everyone, might as well include her in it.

Bellatrix didn't falter. Still wearing that strange smile, she stood up and came closer to him. His muscles tightened; he didn't like the way she was acting. Every instinct in his body kept telling him to turn around and walk back to the library. He  _needed to get to the library_.

"Kiss me," she demanded coldly, daring him to challenge her with the insane expression in her eyes.

"Since when are you in a position to make demands, Bellatrix? If I kiss you, it will be when I want to, if I want to."

Her eyes flashed in anger. "You kissed that peon in the rollerblading rink. Why won't you kiss me?"

Voldemort's body went rigid at the sound of her words. How the fuck did she know about that? Her lips curled even more into a cruel smirk, and he narrowed his eyes. He didn't like that look. Something was really  _wrong_.

When he didn't speak, Trixie went on, utterly disgusted, it seemed, by the mere thought of Quirrell. "Yes, we know about him. We saw you that day. We spotted the two of you leaving the diner, so we followed you. Lucius was right, wasn't he? That weakling is your soulmate, isn't he?" She reached for his hands excitedly, and he took a step back to avoid touching her. The last person he touched was Quirrell; he didn't want his memories of him to be tainted by her. "Do not fear, my lord, we're eliminating the problem for you."

"Eliminating the… What the fuck are you talking about!?" He couldn't help the heightened sense of terror that bubbled in his stomach. What was that even about?! He hadn't been afraid in years, but something about what Trixie said made him shamelessly shiver. " _Where are the others_!?"

"Just stay here with me, my lord. You won't have to worry about it soon."

"What are you talking about? Where are they? If they're doing anything to him—"

"Why is he so important!? You've forgotten all about us since you met him! He's just some nerd! Did you know he likes flowers and books and  _reading_?!" But those were things about Quirrell that Voldemort loved beyond all reason, especially all together. The image popped into his head of Quirrell happily reading that book on flowers, his teeth sinking into his lip as the words captivated him the same way Quirrell charmed Voldemort. That was a scene he could watch the rest of his life, if he had the chance. If his Death Eaters took away that opportunity…

"Yeah, and I love to dance. So the fuck what? It's not enough. All that shit only makes me care about him even more." He'd had enough. Voldemort grabbed her by her neck, and she raised her nails to claw uselessly at his grip. "I'm not fucking around anymore, Bellatrix. If anything happens to Quirrell, I'll fucking kill every single one of you. He's  _that_ important. Now tell me  _where the fuck they are_!" He alleviated pressure enough for her to speak; he tried not to feel too much pleasure at the fear in her eyes. This was about Quirrell and whether he was okay, not how easily Voldemort could terrify someone.

"Why is he so important?" she gasped, tears shining in her eyes. Part of him pitied her. She'd always tried so hard to be indispensable to him, and he thought some piece of her might actually love him. But the timer on her wrist still ticked, and when it hit zero, she'd understand then.

"Easy. He's my soulmate."

She stared at him, and Voldemort knew what she was thinking. All those conversations about avoiding his soulmate came to his mind, and she was the one to blame for quite literally throwing Quirrell into him. It was her fault, and it ate her alive right before his eyes. He couldn't help but enjoy that.

"They're at the library. You won't make it in time."

"Like hell I won't!" He dropped her, and she crumpled to the floor. She said something else that he didn't hear; he was too busy running out of Malfoy Manor as fast as his legs could carry him.

He didn't know what they were planning. He pushed his legs harder. Thankfully, his Death Eaters weren't what one might call bright, so whatever they were planning probably wouldn't even work.  _What if it did, though_? Bellatrix had been in on this, and Lucius, and Yaxley—how the fuck could they do this to him?! He'd spent so long trying to assert himself as their leader, and it had all gone to hell anyways.

Why hadn't he listened to Quirrell before? They didn't matter. The whole world didn't fucking matter. It shouldn't have taken him so long to realize that he just needed Quirrell. The only person in the world who loved him. The only person in the world that he…

The smell of flames and grey smoke rising into the sky hit him like a punch in the gut. They didn't… They wouldn't… They did. They lit the fucking library on fire.

People were running everywhere, panicking and flailing. Voldemort scanned quickly for Quirrell and didn't spot him. He saw his Death Eaters, each of them laughing and cheering as the small, homey library burned. This was _bullshit_. All this because Voldemort had put his attention on somebody who wasn't part of them, who would never be part of them.

_Goddammit, Quirrell, this is why they were a fucking gang, not a club!_

The only one not laughing was Lucius; he only stared at Voldemort as he passed him, his hand shooting out to grab his arm at the last minute. "He's still in there," the only loyal Death Eater murmured. "Your soulmate. One of the others knocked him out before the fire."

"Fuck!" Voldemort growled before he took off toward the doors. He had to get Quirrell out of there! The fire department hadn't even arrived yet! There was no way in hell that they would make it in time. A few people tried to stop him, even a few of his Death Eaters, but he shoved them off and went into the building anyways.

The library was dark. Even though it was in the middle of the day, the dense smoke clouded over the windows and blocked out any light that might have helped Voldemort see. He quickly covered his mouth and nose, trying almost in vain to keep the smoke out of his lungs too. He tried to think. Where would Quirrell be?

_He had no fucking idea_. He couldn't even remember the layout of the library, let alone where any of the isles that Quirrell might have visited would be. Eagerly, he ripped off his shirt and tied it around his mouth. It didn't stop the stinging in his eyes, but at least it gave him both of his hands. He surged forward, trying to remember where the Botany section had been. As long as Quirrell stayed true to form, he might just find him.

The ceiling and walls around him crackled and popped, each time making him jump, and the shattering lightbulbs rained fine glass down on top of his head. With the books being fucking flammable, the fire was only spreading faster and further. He ducked as one of the bookcases caved and fell, just narrowly missing his head, and he tried to keep low, all the while feeling around on the floor for anything resembling a body.

Was he getting close? He had to be, right? By now, a smokey taste stuck to his tongue, drying his mouth, and his eyes burned the further he ventured. Somewhere nearby, another bookcase crumbled under the flames, and he didn't want to consider that somewhere, Quirrell might be under one of those burning cases.

He rounded a corner, nearly giving up. Quirrell, the fucking adorable nerd,  _loved_  his books. He could be anywhere! He might as well just sit down and die with him because he was never going to—suddenly, he tripped over a lumpy form that groaned underneath him, and he raced back to his feet.

"Quirrell?" He felt around on the body, searching for a face to trace with his fingertips, but a hand latched onto his, a hand that fit so perfectly into his that it could only belong to Quirrell. He heaved him close, and Quirrell clung to him. "I've got you, Quirrell. I'll get you out of here," he rasped, voice huskier than usual.

"V-Voldemort! Y-you came for m-me?"

"Don't talk! Cover your mouth. We can talk once I've got you out of here!" He hoisted Quirrell up over his shoulder and started to retrace his steps back to the front door. Glass cracked around themThe room was much hotter now; he wasn't sure how much longer he  _or_  Quirrell could stand this heat.

Quirrell kept trying to talk, which only lead to mumbles and coughs. All Voldemort could understand, over and over, was, "Sorry. I'm sorry." What the hell did Quirrell have to be sorry about? He hadn't done anything wrong. _Voldemort_  was the one who'd caused this mess. He was the one who should have been apologizing.

His legs grew weaker and weaker with each step he took, but he pressed on with what adrenaline he had left. Quirrell's coughing became too much for him, so he took his shirt and covered Quirrell's mouth instead of his own, despite his weak protests. He was almost to the door now, he feel it. He could  _taste_  it.

Air. Clean air. He stumbled through the exit and landed on the concrete steps. With the last of his strength, he settled Quirrell in the soft grass beside him. People were scrambling around them, and he heard the distinct sound of sirens. Voices were talking to him, asking him questions, but he could only focus his attention on Quirrell. Quirrell, coughing and alive right there beside him. He nearly laughed with relief.

Quirrell's eyes rested on his, and he managed a weak smile. "Gang, huh?"

Now Voldemort did laugh, and he couldn't believe how close he was to tears. He'd almost lost this wonderful human being beside him, his incredible soulmate, and the reality that he hadn't nearly killed Voldemort. He reached over to take his limp hand, in awe at how Quirrell could still look beautiful after being in a burning building. "Yeah, Quirrell. Gang."

He didn't fight it when the police took him from the paramedics, and he was loaded in with the rest of the Death Eaters to be taken to jail. Why wouldn't they think the leader of the gang was involved in the fire? They didn't know that Voldemort would rather light himself on fire than light up a building with his soulmate in it. Quirrell was too exhausted to know what was going on, but he was alive. He was fucking alive, and that was all that mattered. Voldemort shut his eyes, angry beyond all reason at himself.

He should have told Quirrell those little important words while he had the chance.


	6. Okay

Voldemort spent the first few nights in Azkaban quietly. The Death Eaters tried to talk to him, engage their beloved master in any way, but he told them right off the bat to fuck off and leave him the hell alone.  _They_  were the reason he was stuck in prison while his soulmate was out there without him. He wasn't even sure if Quirrell was okay or not, and it was driving him mad. Did he get him out in time? Was any damage to him done? How many of these Death Eaters needed to have unfortunate prison accidents?

He couldn't help but wonder what Quirrell thought about him now. If he was out there right now, would Quirrell see him? Could they manage to patch things up? Voldemort didn't care anymore what kind of relationship they had, as long as they had one. He would be whatever his Squirrel wanted him to be.

The only Death Eater he would talk to was Lucius Malfoy, who he had to share a cell with. He didn't directly blame Malfoy. He was the only one of the Death Eaters who understood what having a soulmate was like. After a bit of listening to him, though, he really wished he shared a cell with someone with less of a flare.

"You really shouldn't blame them all, you know," Lucius explained as he used one of the bars as a barre for his stretches. "Bellatrix had them convinced that the only way to get you to come back was to kill a certain man who kept bothering you. None of them even thought to question her."

"That's their problem then," Voldemort sneered irritably. He really didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it only made him think about Quirrell, and he missed that precious dork more than he missed his freedom.

"They thought they were helping you."

"They should have waited for the okay from me before they made a move. Whatever. I don't give a fuck anymore. I'm done with the Death Eaters. I'm done being the Dark Lord. It almost got my soulmate killed." He stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling above him. He tried to think about what Quirrell would be doing right about now. Midday on a Wednesday? He'd probably be in school, teaching little brats how to read and write. If he was healthy enough to go teach.

_Stop thinking like that, Voldemort. He's fine_.

"You didn't want a soulmate, if I recall. Didn't you try to carve away your timer at one point? What  _really_  changed, my lord?"

Voldemort sighed, the scoff on his lips turning into a soft chuckle. "You've never met Quirrell, have you? If you had, you'd know. There's no way I wouldn't want him."

He didn't say much after that. Not to Lucius, not to the cold guards as they brought him food and took away his untouched plate. Time felt weird in Azkaban. He'd only been in there a few days, but it felt like decades. Something about the icy atmosphere took every ounce of his happiness from him, and he found himself clinging to thoughts of Quirrell. Quirrell's smile, his laugh, the happiness he wore when Voldemort held his hand… Unbearable kindness in his eyes as he gazed at Voldemort without judgement. Endearing expressions and adorable actions. Those memories kept him sane, kept him grounded in the cruel prison.

So when one of the guards came and told him that he was being released, he almost didn't want to believe it. In fact, he didn't believe it and reacted in the only way he could. He argued.

"Yeah, right, you're releasing the gang leader. Sounds legit. Come back when you've got a more convincing story."

The guard sighed. Voldemort liked to call them Dementors. He thought the name fit them perfectly considering they were driving him out of his right mind. "We'd love to keep you, but a very convincing story was made on your behalf, so we have no choice but to let you go. Here are your things. Get changed and be ready to leave in five minutes."

His regular clothes were shoved into his arms before the guard locked up again and departed. The Death Eaters watched jealously, and even Lucius looked impressed. It just didn't make any sense. Who the fuck would defend Voldemort?

Nevertheless, he gladly changed and was ready when the displeased guard returned. Apprehensive eyes followed him as he passed cell after cell of people he knew and people he'd wronged and blamed during his crime days. They didn't look very happy he was leaving, either.

This had to be a trick. Somebody wanted to use him for something, so they organized his release as long as he behaved or something like that. He wasn't going to fucking fall for it. He'd tell them to go to hell and turn right back around. Prison was better than selling himself.

He went through a quick checkout, noticing none of them were very happy about his release. Voldemort was just pissing everybody off, wasn't he? In a second, he didn't care. Everything else fell away when he saw Quirrell waiting by the counter for him.

Voldemort had to be dreaming. There was  _no fucking way_  that Quirrell would come bust him out of prison. And if he had, why did they let him out on Quirrell's word alone?

"This the one you were talking about?  _Tom Riddle_?" The moment the Dementor said his real name, Voldemort froze. How did they get that? Where did they get that?

"Yes, that's him!" Quirrell smiled nervously at the Dementor, and Voldemort suddenly wanted out of there as soon as possible. He wanted to get Quirrell away from those soul suckers as quickly as he could before they made him their prey. "If you're done with him, do you think we could go? I really need to get back to work."

"We're done. You can take him." The Dementor pointed them to the exit door, but Voldemort didn't move yet. This was too easy. Why the fuck were they just  _letting him go_?

"Come on." Quirrell's warm hand slipped into his, and it only took one pull to get Voldemort to follow him out of the door.

Leaving the prison was like running out of that burning building all over again. The fresh air revitalized him instantly, and every dark thought fell away. Quirrell's hand was distinctly solid in his own, and it hit him all at once that this was real. He wasn't dreaming. Quirrell literally walked right into Azkaban and brought Voldemort out with him.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Voldemort looked at Quirrell,  _really_  looked at him now. His face was tired, but his eyes were smiling like usual.

"It was easy. I had conclusive proof that you weren't involved with the fire at the library. I'm your soulmate."

"Yeah, and I told them that  _in the beginning_. Why did they believe  _you_?"

Quirrell laughed. Voldemort almost couldn't believe how wonderful it sounded to hear him laughing again. He tightened his hold on that warm hand. "I knew your real name. It was proof enough to the Cornelius Fudge that I was your soulmate. So he signed the release papers and sent me with them to Azkaban. The guards gave me a bit of trouble, though… They weren't very pleasant, were they?"

"That raises another question. How did you know my name?" They were walking, Voldemort thought, and he didn't give a shit where Quirrell was taking him. He was still waiting for Quirrell to push him away and tell him he never wanted to see him again.

"The library. That's what I was researching when your gang lit the place on fire."

"Club," Voldemort absently corrected, and Quirrell snickered in response. "You found my name in the  _library_?"

"When you ran away from the orphanage, they had your real name on the missing children posters. Those are public record." Suddenly shy, he looked everywhere but at Voldemort, who kept trying to catch his gaze. Infuriating squirrel!

"Quirrell, why were you researching me in the library?" It didn't make any sense; didn't Quirrell  _want_  him to stay away? Why would he go to the trouble of investigating someone he wanted to leave him alone?

Quirrell finally glared at him, and Voldemort nearly turned right around and ran back into Azkaban. "Well, I didn't have much of a choice, did I? You were being quite stupid and wouldn't tell me your real name in case something like this  _did_  happen. Plus, I couldn't see you, so I suppose trying to find out more about you was my way of being close to you. Just like you stalking me."

"I wasn't stalking— _You_  were the one that wanted me to stay away from you!"

"Because you apologized! You kissed me—you kissed your  _soulmate_ —and then apologized for it like it was some mistake!" Shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit. Quirrell's voice was breaking, and he sounded like he might cry again. Why did Voldemort keep doing this to him?

"I apologized because—"

"I know why you apologized." Quirrell gave a hollow laugh and a wry smile. "You just wanted to be friends. An accidental, instinctual kiss would ruin that, wouldn't it? How could we be friends after that, when it was everything I wanted and everything you didn't?"

Quirrell stopped walking. Voldemort glanced up and realized they'd reached Quirrell's apartment. If he let things go like this… This could be it. He could walk away and never see Quirrell again. What would he do? Go back to whatever remaining Death Eaters he had? Go groveling to Bellatrix and pretend like he'd never met his soulmate?

The hand in his tried to let go, but Voldemort only held on tighter. Quirrell furrowed his brow at their firmly intertwined fingers, confused, and glanced up to Voldemort for clarification. Not just yet, though, he decided. If Quirrell couldn't figure it out himself, then Voldemort wanted to explain in the best way he could.

"Do you mind if I come in? I could use a cup of tea." Was he imagining it, or was his raspy voice shakier than usual?

For a moment, he though Quirrell might turn him down, with the way his brown eyes, not smiling anymore, stared at him. He was trying to figure Voldemort out, but the former Dark Lord kept his expression guarded. If he gave too much away and Quirrell rejected him, he didn't think he'd be able to take it. After a long moment, Quirrell smiled a little and raised an eyebrow.

"Tea? After being in Azkaban, I thought you might like something stronger."

"Tea just sounds really great."

Quirrell shifted a little, uncomfortable and running out of excuses. Voldemort thought it was adorable. "You could get tea at the diner down the road."

"Yours tastes better." Voldemort shrugged, watching Quirrell with hopeful eyes. "Look, I'm just not ready to leave you alone yet. Last time I saw you was the day of the fire… I didn't know if you were hurt or not. It's just a cup of tea, Quirrell."

"Yeah, I know.  _Just_  a cup of tea." But he opened the door for Voldemort anyways, and he was obviously happy, despite trying to hide it.

When Voldemort walked in, he thought he was in the wrong apartment. Quirrell had actually  _cleaned_  the place. No books were scattered about, his clothes were picked up, and the papers he needed to look over were in a neat pile. He had the weird urge to toss the papers and scatter the books, anything to make it look like Quirrell actually lived here.

Slowly, he turned to look at Quirrell, who blushed frantically and darted into the kitchen. "Tea, you said?"

"You sure this is your apartment?"

"Yes, I'm sure, and why are you following me? I don't need supervision to make tea."

Voldemort hadn't even realized that he did follow Quirrell, but there he was, leaning up against the kitchen doorframe, watching his soulmate busy himself with the kettle. "You cleaned it."

"Suppose I did. Stupid of me, really. I guess I thought you'd be more likely to accept me if my apartment wasn't so messy. It was the only way I knew to keep myself busy when I knew you were out there watching me." Quirrell's hands shook when he pulled mugs out of the cabinet, and Voldemort wanted to reach over and take them from him.

Fuck, he was nervous! Quirrell babbling was only making it worse, too. He shouldn't think edgy Quirrell was so cute. Hell, he thought everything about Quirrell was cute. The smiling, the laughing, the way his eyes kept flickering to Voldemort as though he might vanish any moment. He couldn't believe it had taken him so long to realize how perfect his soulmate was, how much he…

Might as well get this over with. Voldemort took a deep breath and spoke carefully. "Quirrell, man, I owe you an apology."

"Another apology?" Quirrell tried to hide his disappointment as he stared at the kettle, his back to Voldemort. He  _hated_  that. He wanted to see Quirrell's face. "I don't want to hear your apologies, Voldemort."

"Yeah, but this one's important!"

He glanced over his shoulder at Voldemort briefly, an eyebrow raised. "Will it make me kick you out?"

"Hopefully not."

"I'm not confident enough with that answer. Please keep it to yourself."

"Would you listen to me?" He grabbed Quirrell by the arm and turned him to face him. Quirrell's tearful eyes were widened with shock and pain, and Voldemort knew he couldn't wait any long. Quirrell needed to hear this. "Don't you understand? Quirrell, I almost got you killed! Those were  _my_  Death Eaters who lit the library on fire  _because of me_. This is why I didn't want to be around you in the first damn place! I didn't want to be the fucking reason that you died! You don't know how it felt when I thought I wouldn't find you in there! What if you were already dead when I did? I just wanted to keep you safe, Quirrell!"

"Is that why you've been acting so ridiculous? Why you apologized after you kissed me? Because you were conflicted this whole time about getting me hurt?" Quirrell stared up at him, finally understanding, and Voldemort wanted to crawl into a hole. He was never as fucking vulnerable as when he was with Quirrell. "Voldemort, that fire wasn't your fault. Those Death Eaters acted of their own volition. The fire could have happened anyways, and I still might have died had you not come in for me. Thank you, by the way. You risked your own life for mine. How could I ever blame you for that?"

"You're my soulmate, Quirrell. I planned on dying if I couldn't find you in there, too."

Quirrell stiffened. "Don't start talking nonsense again."

"No, if I couldn't find you…"

"Don't say things like that!" Quirrell was shaking by now. "I don't want to hear about you dying. I was worried enough when you were in Azkaban! I knew you weren't eating or sleeping…"

"Yeah? What about you?"

"And I knew I just had to get you out of there, no matter what I needed to do. I couldn't leave you in there, not when the fire wasn't your fault."

"Quirrell."

"If I got you out, everything would be okay. Even if you didn't want anything to do with me, I knew I just couldn't—"

"Quirrell, man, listen!" Voldemort grabbed him by the shoulders, wishing he knew how to calm him down, but that did the trick. Quirrell stared up at him, breathing heavy, but he visibly relaxed the moment Voldemort touched him. He'd have to remember that. "You did it. I'm out. And I'm never going back to Akaban because I'm  _done_. Done with the Death Eaters, done being the Dark Lord."

"What?" Quirrell blinked, confused, and tried to step back to get a good look at Voldemort., but he wasn't ready to let him get away just yet. "What are you talking about? Isn't your gang important to you?"

Voldemort could have kissed him right then and there. "They're not that important, Quirrell. Not as important as, you know. Other things."

"Oh?" Quirrell's lips had quirked a little, and he furrowed his brow in mock confusion and intrigue. "What other things could  _possibly_  be more important than your club?"

Voldemort chuckled, absently inching closer to his soulmate. Quirrell noticed and grinned. "I see they're a club again."

"You're avoiding the question, Voldemort," Quirrell pleasantly reminded him.

"I'm sorry, Quirrell."

"More apologies? Now that can't possibly be the answer to my question…"

"I lied to you. You already know that, right? I really don't want any tea."

"I knew that from the beginning. Good thing I didn't turn the kettle on."

Voldemort took Quirrell's unexpectedly soft hand. Those long fingers that clasped books lovingly and tended carefully to flowers were now curling around his own, clutching his hand as if it might slip away if he let go. Quirrell was smiling again, patiently waiting, giving Voldemort the time he needed to say what he had to. The thought that no way in hell would he ever deserve Quirrell swam back to his brain, but he shoved it away with all the other useless ideas that he might ever end up anywhere but right there with Quirrell.

"So if you don't want any tea, what exactly do you want, Voldemort?"

He didn't even hesitate a fraction. "You. Is it okay to want you? After all the bullshit I've put you through, is it okay for me to love you?"

"Okay?" A laugh bubbled to Quirrell's lips, and he beamed up at Voldemort with a smile that made him fall in love all over again with the little squirrel. "I think it's wonderful."

That was it. He couldn't hold back anymore. Quirrell giggled as Voldemort tugged him in for a kiss that he sure as hell wouldn't be apologizing for later. He'd been running his whole life from his soulmate, but he'd given up the moment he met Quirrell. It just took him far too fucking long to realize it. He was done running. And that was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! For now, this is the last chapter, but I may be adding another one here that was not added on fanfiction.net, so if you're interested, check back soon!


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